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Reviewed by Jack Magnus for Readers’ Favorite

Deceit is a private investigator mystery written by Mark McGinn.
Clay Tempero is a suspended Australian attorney who’s working as a private investigator until his suspension is lifted. Some of his work is of the tawdry variety and involves catching spouses in illicit affairs. When one client retains him to catch her spouse cheating, Clay figures it’s a routine job until he bursts in on the cheating spouse and sees that his sex partner is actually an underage boy.

This strikes a chord for the private eye who still is cautious about men’s rooms after an incident that happened while he was a child. Clay’s friend, attorney Sean O’Keeffe, has been giving him work when he can. His newest assignment is helping craft a defense strategy for Lou Blanc, a pop singer who’s been charged in connection with the disappearance of her little boy.

Mark McGinn’s private investigator novel, Deceit, is dark, gritty and intense. Clay Tempero is the perfect noir detective, who lives lean, and whose relations with his father and daughter are strained, to say the least. McGinn’s story is taut and atmospheric, and his writing style fits the story perfectly.

As I was reading Deceit, I started wondering if there were other Clay Tempero novels around or planned, as a series is sure to be a welcome addition for any mystery buff’s bookshelf. Deceit delivers action, suspense and an insider’s look into politics, law and life Down Under.

It is most highly recommended!

Chapter 1

An axe bursts through my wall, splintering plasterboard and sending a shockwave through my pokey room. The violence invites a sliver of morning light to catch dust motes and turn the glint of the steel blade into something theatrical.

On the other side, Des Tallon’s voice booms, ‘Renovations started. Back later.’

Anyone watching would say I’m unfazed by the axe. I lean back in my chair. The ceiling fan fails me again, grinding away, shifting hot air, not cooling it. Almost spring, and already aggravating me. What fresh hell will the 2024 summer bring?

Bugger it.

My eyes find the little faded pic of Kylie starting school. She’s eighteen today. I could count the birthdays I’ve missed, but I won’t. Since she was two, I’ve been her dad in my heart and not much anywhere else. From today, there’s no more maintenance to pay and no Nicole deciding when I see her. Whether I’m in her life is Kylie’s call now.

Call O’Keeffe instead. My thumb finds Kylie’s name first. I scroll past it.

Phone tight in my fist, my lawyer and good mate answers before I’ve properly formed what I want to say. I manage, ‘Listen, mate, these reinstatement papers and your questions.’

‘What about them?’

‘The office situation here is piss poor.’

As if O’Keeffe had predicted my stress, he says, ‘Just tell me what’s important. Why you should regain your practising certificate. I’ll record it, get it transcribed.’

‘Where do you start with an existential question? Do I need to say I’ve been a fuckwit without using the word?’

‘I can dress that up. We know why. Go on.’

‘The law means everything to me, well almost.’ The admission catches in my throat, the reason behind so many lost opportunities with no one to blame but me. ‘Hang on.’ I force a cough, glad O’Keeffe can’t see my welling eyes. ‘Sorry, throat tickle.’

First lie of the day.

‘Justice might top it, if I’m honest. Point is, the last six years chasing adulterers has put bread on the table. But it’s white, and two days old, if you get my drift. None of your fancy ciabatta. No life, is it?’

‘Not much of one, no.’

‘Battling for the underdog. That’s not just what I do. It’s who I am. This fit and proper person yardstick the Law Society applies…’ I stop. ‘All I can say is I’ve kept my nose clean. My yearning for it won’t be enough, that much I know.’

‘It’s what you’ve done since disbarment that counts,’ O’Keeffe says. ‘Integrity, reliability, and all that crap we lawyers are supposed to be good at.’

‘Encouraging.’

***

Three days on, Des and his crew have done me proud, or as proud as a cash-strapped PI can be. The extension falls short of digs to rave about, but it’s mine, for now. Des under-promised and over-delivered, something I need to get better at.

The phone’s sharp trill drags me away from the hum of the street below. I shut my eyes at the caller, exhale, and pretend I don’t know who’s calling.

‘Tempero.’

‘He’s with the slut tonight, Clay. The bastard’s got it all organised?’

Yvonne Hassett’s voice. A touch of old Sydney clings to her vowels and cloaks her words in self-righteous certainty. The same false assuredness I used to hear in courtrooms, at a time when I belonged there.

I lean back, tap fingers on my desk to help get through what must be another call about a bloke who can’t keep his cock in his pants. A single crack in the ceiling runs like a faultline from one corner to another. I sense it’s a message.

The photo of Yvonne’s husband still lingers. Something about him has stirred in me, something historic, but the synaptic link won’t come, like an itch, out of reach.

Then there’s Yvonne herself. Most clients want to size me up in person, see what they’re paying for. Not Yvonne. She prefers distance, but the upfront deposit she transferred does the talking.

Her third call this week. Her urgency against my creeping impatience feels like a battle of wills more than wits.

‘Are you sure this time?’ I ask. ‘Monday, you were certain, remember? Wednesday, you were positive, yet…’

‘This time it’s different, Clay. It’s his secretary. ’ She says the word like she’s discovered a new ally. ‘She’s tipped me off, disgusted with his lies.’

The aggrieved secretary is a type I know well. To keep the salary coming, they tolerate a boss’s arrogance, until one day, something shifts. The thrill of betrayal, maybe. Working both sides of an ugly street.

‘Didn’t you say earlier he’d given some staff pay rises?’

‘What’s that got to do with him shagging the slut?’

My answer is ‘Everything,’ but I keep it to myself.

‘Maybe nothing,’ I say. ‘Where and when?’

‘Ramada Towers. Seven-thirty.’

I glance at my watch. Half an hour.

For a millisecond I consider declining. But I get paid whether it’s a false lead or not, and I’ll be buggered if I have to return half her deposit.

‘Fine, back to you tonight. That’s assuming it works out this time, Yvonne.’

A pause, ended by a sharp edge. ‘Promise me you’ll go, Clay. This is the good oil.’

The racing expression, coming from her, might be more oily than good.

‘Sure. No worries.’

She doesn’t hear my assurance. She’s gone the moment she says oil, from somewhere much quieter than here. No TV, no traffic, no kettle.

I hit the stairs, rejecting a lift slower than Sydney traffic on a long weekend, and scroll to Des. Outside, the air is redolent with a tandoor but undercut by smoked dope and exhaust fumes.

Across the road, the outfit that used to sell second-hand vinyl has produced a plywood frontage, wrapped with an artist’s impression of glass and blond timber above the words. ‘Boutique Living. Coming 2026.’ Somebody has already sprayed it from a can with as much thought as a dog sprays a lamppost.

Under the tag, a DA notice curls at the corners. Too small to read from the footpath.

Probably meant that way.

I wait for Des to answer. Two men loiter near the doorway of the party pill shop.

Clad in black leather jackets and jeans, they’re trying and failing to appear inconspicuous. Cops. One has slicked-back hair catching the last of the day’s light, the other’s head is a polished dome reflecting it.

I catch Dome Head’s eye. The man turns away, tries to make it casual.

‘Tallon.’

‘Rostered on tonight, mate?’

Des grunts. ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ His voice has the quality of sandpaper. Thick grade.

‘Argentinian, I believe. Heading your way and in need of a favour.’

Des, as always, is attentive to the plan. Inside, he’d been my buffer. Our bond needed no explanation. Cricket.

By daylight, he reduces buildings to rubble. Wielding an axe is Des at his nuanced best. By night, he keeps the peace at Ramada Towers, a job that insists on a man too large to be challenged and too smart to start anything himself.

‘Can you make sure Hassett’s in a suite where there’s an adjoining door?’ I ask.

‘Yep. But unlikely he’s using his real name, right?’

‘Agreed. Photo of the infidel on its way.’

***

The Ramada’s carpet swirls, reds and oranges, are garish, dated and unapologetic. This one is also vomitous.

Through reception, Des waits at the lifts, a looming figure in a shirt that might once have propelled craft in Sydney Harbour.

I reach him and he offers a keycard, a faded tattoo catching the light, an anchor, on his forearm. ‘Gets you in the room and through the adjoining door,’ Des says. ‘One-way access. Got it?’

‘Cheers, mate.’

Des murmurs the floor and suite number. ‘The woman hasn’t arrived, not yet.’

My chest tightens with frustration. ‘Apparently I have the oil from the client this time.’

‘Customer’s never wrong.’

‘Tired of this shit, mate. The holes in my empathy bucket widen by the day.’

Des flashes his gap-toothed grin. ‘Not your natural vocation, mate?’

‘You think?’

‘Help yourself to the minibar. Might brighten you up. I’ll add it to the prick’s bill.’

I take the lift, obediently follow Des’s instructions, as if they were from my father, and arrive at a fancy room. Inside, a gold bedspread matches the curtains, and the headboard is Tudor style, all too pristine for a time and place like this.

In an armchair, I fiddle with my Canon SLR, adjust settings, check the light. The last thing I need now is another botched job, another wasted night with nothing to show for it. That wouldn’t pass the fit and proper person test.

I push an ear into the adjoining door, hear nothing. So much for a quick commando entry. Snap a few photos, exit, send an invoice.

In seconds, the sound of a creak. Not a popular sound in a hotel, I’d have thought. The voice of the woman is soft, her words unintelligible. Hassett is clearer when he asks, ‘Champagne? Easier for you than the hard stuff, yeah?’

A cork pops, a laptop chimes and I wonder who brings a computer to a hotel room when there’s plenty of porn on the in-house TV.

Hassett again, ‘Over here for the lines. Leave the bag out. We’ll do more later.’

The woman says some words I can’t hear until she says, ‘account number’.

Not just infidelity.

This is something bigger.

Dirtier.

A shoe tumbles to the floor. I imagine the rustle of clothing as it shifts against skin.

Wait, let them get comfortable, naked.

Hassett’s sounds of pleasure are the green light.

In perfect silence, I slide the card into the lock.

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